Man of Gondor
by LittleHobbitGal
Summary: While Faramir lies near death in the Houses of Healing, his memories and dreams disturb the rest of Boromir in the Halls of Waiting in Mandos. Some AU chapters and non-graphic violence. In progress.
1. Default Chapter

Man of Gondor   


There was a confusion of images. His little ones, dragged away from him, fighting like bears all the way. Helpless fury. Noise. Pain. Through the pain a voice, raw edged, speaking low and urgent in his ear, the pressure of a strong firm hand, and then everything fading into blessed peace.

Boromir of Minas Tirith, Captain of the Tower Guard and heir to Denethor, ruling Steward of Gondor, slept, and as he slept he dreamed his brothers dream. They had shared many dreams before. By some sibling telepathy, they even thought each other's thoughts, or they had at one time. Lately they had not been as close as they once were, but this dream was more vivid than any other they had shared before, save perhaps one.

It might have been a waking vision, or a memory. He dreamed that he stood watch on the banks of the Anduin, half asleep with weariness, his eyes dazzled by the moonlight on the water. His gaze was drawn to the north, as it had been for many months, mechanically now. Little hope remained that he would see the one he looked for. Even a small hope was enough, however, to keep the boy within searching, long after the man had despaired. A very little hope was enough to send the heart of the boy leaping into his throat at the sight of a strange prow on the river, even as the soldier looked on with wary detachment. Boromir recognized the elvish boat as it floated by, felt his pulse quicken with his brother's. He saw the body inside, and the familiar face, serene now in the repose of sweet forgetfulness. He felt his brother's keen, cool intellect engage, quickly memorizing every detail of the scene. At the same moment, he felt Faramir's heart as it finally accepted the truth that it had feared for days: Boromir was dead. A sharp stab of loss shocked him to his core. He heard his brother call his name.

His eyes snapped open. It was pitch black, but he knew where he was. The details of his final battle became clearer in his mind. He had continued to fight long after he knew he was dying. For his little ones. Aragorn had comforted him, swore that the Tower of the Guard would not fall. Aragorn had forgiven his weakness, praised his valor. It was that praise that carried his spirit here. He was in the Halls of Waiting, among the honored dead of Gondor.

The light grew, or his eyes adjusted. All around him, to the limits of his vision, he saw dim rows of seated figures. Among them he recognized many of his ancestors, and famous men and women from Gondor's history. Nearer to him, he saw friends and relatives, people he had loved in life. He recognized the faces of many good men who had died under his command. He had taken great risks in his career, and paid a great price for his victories. All had their eyes closed. Most dreamed peacefully, but some twitched and grimaced as if troubled by painful memories. He rose from his own seat stiffly. As he turned to look around him, he saw his mother, not far from him. Her face was radiant. She looked ageless, serene, and even more beautiful now than she had been in life. He took an eager step toward her but stopped short. He would not trouble her peace. 

He turned away, and as he turned he knew suddenly why his brother's dream had come to him here, in this place. His brother was dying. Faramir's spirit wandered in a dark and feverish dream, and sometimes he cried out Boromir's name. He would see his brother again soon. Would Faramir wake and talk to him, or would he sleep in peaceful stillness like his mother, leaving him bereft still. 

He took a step, stumbled, and realized that his eyes were blinded with tears. So spirits could weep. A moment later he was on his knees, pressed down by grief. Minas Tirith was under attack. The whole city was dying. For a terrifying moment he was inside the mind of his father, the Steward of Gondor, watching his people die, watching his son die, and then, weighed down by unbearable torment, his fathers mind slipped away from him again. Boromir could no longer feel him at all.

He looked around wildly. With an eerie silence the hall was filling with the spirits of the dead. Men he had commanded, men he had fought with. Boromir, who had never lacked courage, who had borne countless wounds with grim stoicism, felt his entire being tremble and hid his face in his hands. 

He could still hear his brother's voice, very close now, and very weak. Another voice joined it, and still another. High clear voices, like the voice of a child, or a hobbit. A surge of anger shook him, and gave him the strength to stand. Not his hobbits. Not here. They should not die so young, so pure of heart. He would give anything to save them. He had given everything, but it had not been enough. 

He knew that Aragorn's praise had been just. He had reclaimed his honor in the end. He had died in a feat of selfless valor worthy of the heroes of old. He had paid for his foolish lust for the ring, but he had failed where it mattered most. He had failed those he should have protected. He had let his father down. He had not been there to defend his people. He had attacked the Ringbearer, and left his brother in Gondor to die. And his Shirelings, brave beyond their size but no match for the evil of the world, were dying too. Would he even be allowed to see them?He squared his shoulders. His brother and his father at least would be here soon. He would meet them like a soldier. He would confess his faults. He would ask their forgiveness.

"You carry more burdens than you need to, man of Gondor." The voice resonated through his body, seeming to come from the floor itself. A dark figure, too tall to be human, moved toward him, drifting like smoke. The lines of its face blurred and shifted fluidly, only the black eyes remaining still. "Your attack on the Ringbearer forced him into a decision he had been avoiding. He has made his way to Mordor with his servant Samwise. The fate of the Ring is in their hands, as it was meant to be. And the fate of Gondor is in the hands of her king. Aragorn has kept his word to you. The Tower of the Guard will not fall, unless all of the West fails."

Boromir bowed his head in acknowledgement, but the unblinking gaze drew his eyes again. "I am lord of the halls of Mandos. I have not spoken to a waking spirit for many years. Those under my care sleep, and dream their memories, until Iluvitar gathers them to his Light. Yet you dream the dreams of the living, and you wake. Your brother lies close to my gates now, but the Heir of Isildur may yet call him back. Your father's spirit has passed beyond my care. He lies now in the house of my sister Nenia, lady of Sorrow. His burden is greater than yours, for he has taken his own life." 

Boromir started, and opened his mouth, but Mandos held up his hand, and Boromir's voice died in his throat. "He would have taken Lord Faramir with him, for even in his madness he could not bear to be parted with his last remaining son. He would have, were it not for the actions of the smallest of the Tower Guard. Peregrin Took now stands at the doors of the Houses of Healing, holding vigil for his new lord, and for his beloved cousin Meriadoc, who fell in battle on the Pelinor Fields. The hobbits honor your memory. They have both turned soldier." 

Boromir felt a seat pressing against the back of his knees and he sank into it. Wonder and weariness swept over him. He felt his eyes begin to close. A hand like a cold mist was laid on his forehead. "Sleep, Lord Boromir. Dream. We will speak again when you wake." As the voice drained away from him, he caught one last, faint, murmur. "Did you think, man of Gondor, that your love was not returned?" 

Index


	2. Ithilien

First I would like to thank you for a kind welcome.

Secondly, I seem to have neglected the standard disclaimer, so here goes it

All characters, places, and most of the situations presented are Professor Tolkien's.

All liberties taken with above characters, places and situations are completely my own.

**Ithilien**

The Southrons were on the move. Great battalions of them had been seen, marching straight through Ithilien on roads his people built long ago; roads deserted as the Enemy drove them back, step by hard fought step. But where strength would no longer serve, stealth would do, Faramir thought grimly.  Before the day was over there would be one less company of them to join their Dark Lord. In the meantime there was the little matter of this small, rapidly dissipating plume of smoke; too small to be an orc fire. The Haradrim were usually arrogant enough to dispense with the precaution of sending scouts ahead, but if this was a southern spy, he would not be returning to his unit. This was going to be a nasty bit of business, and he cursed the distraction. The strange creature that had slipped their net earlier had disquieted him, and his unease was growing. There was something amiss in Ithilien, something more than just the rampaging of the orcs and the tramping of the Haradrim on the ancient roads of Gondor.

In his dream, Boromir felt the same clear anger as his brother at the thought of the Enemy using the art and craft of his people for their own foul purposes, but he could feel something else in Faramir as well. Boromir valued Ithilien for the memories it held of the might and pride of his ancestors. Faramir, he realized now, loved Ithilien in its own right. He loved not only the history of it, but also the scents and sights and sounds of it. Even in the midst of war, Ithilien retained a faded beauty that touched his heart with an unnamable bitter-sweet emotion; something almost elvish. He would defend it to the end of his strength, but to defend it he must now set aside his love for it. He would need a clear mind for the upcoming action.

Boromir felt the shadow of an old sorrow touch his heart. Faramir had learned to detach himself from his emotions at a very young age. He had been five when their mother died, and their father's thunderous grief had frightened him. He became very good at hiding; often Boromir was the only one who could find him. Faramir could not hide from the Steward, his lord, forever, but he became wary in their father's presence. During the day Faramir grew to be an extraordinarily solemn and inscrutable child; at night he crawled into Boromir's bed and wept with his arms around his brother's neck.

When they reached adulthood they took their place as captains of the guard, as befitted their station. Denethor did not expect much from Faramir. He felt his younger son was better suited to scholarship than combat, and Minas Tirith needed warriors, not scholars; but Faramir proved to be an excellent soldier, second in his people's esteem only to his older brother. He took no pride in bloodshed, and he hated needless killing, but he fought for his land and his people with a deadly efficiency and unwavering valor. He would never be as big or as strong as Boromir was, but he was a shrewd military strategist, and an expert shot with a bow. He remained somewhat aloof, but he had the full loyalty of the guard. He treated every soldier with unfailing respect, no matter what their station and in return he earned the trust and respect of every man who ever served under him. Only Boromir still saw within the soldier the little boy who had cried in his bed.

Faramir and his men worked almost as one. As Faramir approached the place the smoke had been seen,three of his men were silently converging on the same spot. As the four hunters closed in, their prey gave up on the notion of concealment, stepped out of the brush, and prepared to defend themselves as best they could. Faramir was momentarily shocked by what he saw, but he recovered quickly. While his men were still debating what they had found, his keen eyes were thoroughly raking his captives. They did not seem to pose any immediate threat, but wariness was a deeply ingrained habit. Even so, he could not help feeling a certain admiration for the valor of the pair before him. They were half the number, and the size of their captors, yet they would sell their lives dearly if need be. __

Boromir was nearly as startled as his brother to see Frodo and Sam in Ithilien, but he felt a shock of something like hope. The Ringbearer had made it to the eaves of Mordor. He looked closely at the hobbits through Faramir's eyes. Frodo was thinner than he had been when they left Lothlorien. His face was pale and determined. Boromir could only imagine what the Ring was doing to him, this close to the Dark Land, yet he answered Faramir unwaveringly, even surrounded as he was by tall grim men with weapons. _And the Halfling forth shall stand._ Looking back he marveled over how completely he had misjudged the Ringbearer. It was not Frodo he had betrayed; it was himself. He felt a tendril of fear wrap itself around his heart .It was only at great cost that he had defeated the Ring, and now the Ring had come to Faramir.

Faramir's mind was working furiously, although he would not let his captives know it. Halflings; they could be nothing else, but what were Halflings doing in the woods of Ithilien? Mithrandir had once, in a rare gentle mood, entertained the Steward's youngest son with amusing tales of the Halflings of the north. Boromir had not been there; he had no time for children's tales. He had been with their father, shouldering the burdens of the heir to the ruler of a kingdom at war. Faramir had not thought of those tales for a long time. Then the dream had come; the first dream he had shared with Boromir for some time, and a particularly vivid one; the dream that had taken Boromir away from him. His questioning of the strangers was cold and to the point. When Frodo spoke of Imladris, Boromir felt the involuntary catch in his brother's breath. Faramir's eyes were boring into the Halfling, his mind flooding with history and legend. _Seek for the sword that was broken, in Imladris it dwells. _The sword that cut the Ring from the Dark Lord's hand had long ago passed into the north, along with the remnants of Isildur's line. Into the north, to Imladris, Boromir had gone, and from Imladris he had set out in a strange company; not two, but four Halflings, an elf, a dwarf, and a man from the north with a Numenorian name and a reforged sword.

  It was clear that this Halfling knew many things about matters that affected Faramir deeply. It was also clear that Frodo, son of Drogo was not being entirely candid. There was much he wished to learn from this little one, but the Haradrim would not wait. He could spare two men to guard such precious guests, but he could spare no more time. He gave the Halflings one last searching look. Frodo's servant Samwise returned his gaze with obvious distrust. Boromir found himself smiling. He knew that look well; it had been turned against him plenty of times. Frodo bowed to Faramir with grave courtesy. For a moment Boromir felt wonder blossom in his younger brother's heart, but wonder was a luxury he could not afford right now. Even as Faramir inclined his head in acknowledgement, he was tucking the feeling away, to examine later at greater leisure. He was a Captain of Gondor, and he had business to attend to.


	3. Boromir's Bane

            Boromir could feel his brother's frustration. Frodo was speaking with great care, giving away as little as possible about the Ring. The hobbit was a natural born diplomat, but Faramir was skilled at interrogation, and the questions in his mind were too urgent for diplomacy. Faramir had his own guesses about Isildur's Bane, but he knew nothing for certain. His mind had been turning over the possibilities ever since Boromir's departure from Minas Tirith and his thoughts had become more urgent since Boromir's death. Had Isildur's Bane been the bane of Boromir of Gondor as well? 

            Faramir's usual patience was already dangerously frayed. The fighting had not been easy. He felt the same tired ache he always felt after a battle, even a victorious one, as his mind began to register their losses. Fighting also reminded him of his brother, by whose side he had fought so often. The dull sense of loss that he always carried with him into battle these days had been sharpened by the presence of the Halflings. Boromir could feel the strain on his brother's stern composure every time Frodo invoked his name. When Frodo suggested that Faramir bring his questions to Minas Tirith and wait for Boromir's return, it finally hit Boromir: Frodo had fled from him before the orcs attacked. He did not know that Boromir was dead. He realized with a strange twinge that Frodo did not know the fate of his young cousins either.

            Faramir continued to probe Frodo about his relationship with Boromir, carefully noting the shadow of memory in Frodo's eyes and his hesitation before answering. Boromir, from his perspective noted something else about Frodo's voice when he finally answered; there was forgiveness there, and pity. Something like the pity Frodo felt for the creature Gollum, but for Boromir the pity was balanced by an equal amount of respect, and a genuine wish for friendship. He regretted now that the lure of the Ring had kept them apart during their journey. There was much in Frodo that reminded Boromir of his brother. At any other time Boromir would have been glad to see them meet, but now he could feel the Ring working on Faramir's tired mind. His grief for his brother, and his thirst for knowledge were entirely focused on one thing: Isildur's Bane.

            Faramir could feel the mistrust in Samwise, and the wariness in Frodo, but his own suspicions were blunted. Frodo had passed the test. His shock and grief at the news of Boromir's death had convinced him, and his fear and grief for the rest of the Company had touched him, even through his own grief and the incessant questioning in his mind. He wondered how closely related Frodo was to the other Halflings, but he did not ask. He would speak to Frodo again in private when they had reached a more protected location. Boromir was glad he had not asked. Lessons in hobbit genealogy tended to take a great deal of time, and Boromir did not know if Frodo was up to it.

            The march to Henneth Annun felt longer than usual. The beauty of Ithilien passed by him unnoticed. He tried unsuccessfully to shake the mood. It was Boromir who was the impatient one. He was always first to reach for everything. It was a standing joke between them and their closest friends that Faramir lacked the bulk of Boromir because his older brother ate everything before Faramir could get to it. The thought usually put a smile on his face, but not today. Today it only fueled his desire to know the truth of his brother's death. Frodo would give him the truth, he now felt certain of that; but how much of the truth? Would it be enough to satisfy him?

 The Halflings were slower than the long-legged men of Gondor. Faramir allowed Mablung and Damrod to pull ahead of them. This would be privacy enough. Keeping his voice low he continued his dogged questioning about Boromir. Isildur's Bane was the heart the matter. Such a thing would mean a great deal to the Steward's heir. The heir of Isildur, it seemed was content to let the Halfling carry it, but Boromir of Minas Tirith would not have been. He would have seen it brought home to his city. He would have brought it himself; a mighty gift for their father. Isildur's heir had yet to appear to reclaim his kingdom. Isildur's Bane was within Faramir's grasp, and Faramir was now the Steward's heir. 

Boromir longed to tell Faramir the whole truth, to warn him. He felt the muscles of  his spirit-body clench in frustrated helplessness, just as he could feel his brother's body tense with concentration and the effort to keep his weariness and grief in check. Then he felt a shock of emotion from his brother that nearly took his breath away. Mithrandir was dead. Boromir felt the moment again; helplessly watching Gandalf fall. Boromir's memories of the wizard were all from the journey. He had never sought out Gandalf in Minas Tirith as his brother had. Boromir saw now what Faramir's time with Gandalf had meant to him. With Gandalf Faramir had been able to be himself, away from the painful scrutiny of their father, and the protective shadow of his older brother.

Faramir's mind was reeling. Mithrandir had fallen. Boromir Captain of Gondor had fallen. And now the test had come to him. It was an evil thing. It had destroyed Isildur, and his beloved Boromir, and yet these two small Halflings had carried it all the way to the fences of Mordor. They were without guidance. He should bring them to Minas Tirith, to his father, for council. Yet his father was a proud man. Would he bring to the Steward the thing that had destroyed his son? What had Mithrandir intended? No. He would not bring Boromir's Bane back to his city. Better to leave this thing to the guidance of the Elves. He would put his trust in Elrond of Imladris, and in Elrond's chosen messenger. But Boromir could hear a voice whispering in Faramir's mind, 'You would trust this perian over your own flesh and blood?'

It was the voice of their father. Boromir knew how long Faramir had carried that questioning and disapproving voice with him. He felt his heart sink.


	4. Faramir's Test

Author's notes:  This was a particularly difficult chapter to write. Fortunately I already had it halfway written because it was meant to be the end of the last chapter. I was going to leave you in horrible suspense, but it was taking too long to write and I wanted to get _something_ posted. So now I get to leave you in horrible suspense at the end of this chapter! The next chapter is going to be a doozy too, and then I get the fun of making sure the rest of the story is not hideously anti-climactic….

Since this chapter and the next enter into serious AU territory, I must offer a revised disclaimer. The characters and backgrounds are still largely Professor Tolkien's, but I have also included a nod to the film (you'll recognize it when you get there) so I should acknowledge Peter Jackson and co. for planting ideas in my head. What I have done with said characters and ideas is entirely the product of my own dark and twisted imagination.

**Faramir's Test**

Faramir managed to hold off on more questioning until after the evening meal, but it was not easy. After the last of the food had been eaten, he led the halflings to a discreet corner, finally able to speak with them freely, and ask them things about his brother he would not want his men to hear. Boromir had been esteemed the best man in Gondor, and Faramir would have him remembered that way, not for any weaknesses that may have led to his downfall. Frodo did not speak of his errand, or the thing he carried, and Faramir did not press him. He did not really want to know. His heart was too conflicted. He wished to speak to Boromir but Boromir was gone and here before him was one who had known him in his last months of life.

Boromir was half intrigued and half embarrassed to hear himself spoken of from Frodo's point of view. Frodo began not at the Council, or at the departure from Rivendell, but in the snows of Redhorn, in the heart of a blizzard. The hobbits had nearly been buried in the snow. It was Boromir who had first spoken aloud his concern for them. When it had become necessary to carry them down the mountain, Boromir had gone straight to the youngest and smallest of the hobbits, the most vulnerable member of the Company, and carried him to safety first. 

Boromir remembered the whole thing very clearly. Peregrin Took had been surprisingly light, and chilled to the bone. Boromir remembered how the small form on his back had trembled, and how the shivering had gradually died down as some of Boromir's own body heat seeped into him, and he remembered the warmth flowing back into him at the sight of the lad's grateful, glowing face.

After that Pippin contrived to be as close to the big man as he could at all times and wherever Pippin was, Merry was always close behind. Boromir had not objected at all to his new shadows. He had taken pleasure in teaching them the basics of sword play, and in extracting them from all the small difficulties they managed to get themselves into. Pippin in particular had a gift for running headlong into trouble. Boromir feared for what might happen to that innocence and enthusiasm out in the large world unprotected. Frodo's fears for his young cousins were plain on his face too, and the near certainty that he would never see them again.  Faramir looked into his eyes and saw a reflection of his own deep grief, and for a moment his heart went out to the halfling, but the moment did not last long. Frodo at least had some chance, however slim, of finding his loved ones again. Boromir was lost forever.

 Faramir's emotions were in turmoil. Boromir had found someone else to protect before he died. Faramir was surprised at the bitterness of the thought. Boromir could never resist the opportunity to protect the weak and helpless. He spent much of his life protecting me. He is, he was, as bad as Father. Neither one of them ever believed I could do anything on my own. In this matter now I must prove myself. Boromir felt a pain, and a strange sense of dread around his heart. Faramir was not himself. Or perhaps, thought Boromir, caught off guard, I never really knew him.

Frodo resumed the tale. He emphasized Boromir's valor, and his great respect for Gandalf and Aragorn, but he could not hide the fact that Boromir had clashed with the leaders more than once about the route that they were taking. Faramir was not surprised. Boromir was a proud man. If there was a great prize to be had Boromir would bring it home himself, or die trying. 

Was that what had happened? Certainly two halflings could not bring down a man so powerful, but what of this Aragorn? It seems he had been in league with the elves and the wizard. Faramir had respected the wizard, even had some affection for him, but it seemed in this he had opposed Boromir. He clearly had not had Gondor's best interests at heart. Faramir realized that his hand was resting on his sword hilt and that it was painfully tense. He flexed it a few times and began to massage it with his other had, trying to keep his mind on his captive 'guests'. 

The Ring was taking him, Boromir thought bleakly. Faramir's thoughts were not entirely his own. Still, he reflected uneasily, there must be a grain of truth in there somewhere. The Ring did not create thoughts. It found them in the darkest corners of your being, and twisted them to its own purposes. There were secret places in Faramir's heart that even Boromir had never been allowed to see.

The conversation had turned to elves. Samwise, it seemed, was very fond of them. At another time that might have warmed Faramir's heart. He was a scholar of old lore, and he himself had once loved the tales of alliances between men and elves, but not anymore. It was Elrond and the elves that had begun this foolish quest, and led to his death the one person Faramir cared for more than any other.

 His hand was on his hilt again when it came out; the truth, at last. Samwise, who had spoken unwarily, clapped his hands over his mouth, horrified; Faramir stood up slowly drawing his blade. It all made sense now. The Ruling Ring; this was a prize Boromir would die for. Faramir's keen eyes were caught by the fine chain around the halfling's neck, leading into his tunic. He slid his sword under the chain and pulled it out. Isildur's Bane was before him. It seemed to grow larger under his fascinated gaze. His blade had grazed the perian's collar bone, leaving a thin line of blood. The servant had his hand on his own short sword, but Faramir ignored him. This was Boromir's legacy to him. He would not fail. His hand was trembling, the light on the blade was dancing, but the Ring lay perfectly still.

. He could not remember moving. It had been pure accident, it must have been pure accident, when his sword pierced the perian's throat clean through. The servant drew his sword with a startled yell, and Faramir reacted on instinct. The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds. His men were standing, some reaching for their own weapons, some just staring at their Captain and the two small bodies at his feet. In a daze, Faramir dropped his sword and knelt down to pull the fine chain over the perian's lolling head. Boromir's Bane was his.

Boromir was no longer breathing. His heart felt like a hot stone in his chest. He tried to cry out, but his throat was closed. He struggled against the great weight that seemed to have descended on his eyelids and willed himself to wake.


	5. The Ring comes to Gondor

            **The Ring comes to Gondor**

He felt the movement of the horse beneath him, his hands tight on the reigns, the wind blowing back his long dark hair. High above, he could feel the Nazgul circling. They could sense the Ring on its chain around his neck. If their Master commanded it, they would swarm down upon him, and reclaim his prize, but for now they waited and watched; their malice hung in the air like the acrid smell of smoke. The men behind him were unnerved, but Faramir had always been able to master man or beast, and they followed him silently, controlling their restless mounts as best they could.

            Faramir's eyes flickered upward to the winged shapes, small but threatening in the distance, and back to the white walls of Gondor, coming closer with each passing moment. They were within reach. Even if the creatures attacked, Faramir was confident that, riding flat out, he could still reach the city gates in time. He might have to leave his men behind, but their loss would be a small price to pay for the power the Steward would wield with the Ring in his hand.__

            The voice in his head seemed to rise from his own thoughts, giving them shape with soft silky tones. "You would give it to your father, when for your whole life he has given you nothing? The Ring came to you, not your father. It was you who slew the two pheriannath who would have taken it to the Dark Lord himself. You will hold it and command the armies as Captain-General. The Steward will listen to you now." 

            This is not what you want brother, Boromir thought urgently. Our father will fear you, and hate you in his fear. He will not rest until the Ring is his, and then it will have our whole family. The line of Stewards will end in disgrace and the King will inherit a broken shadow of a country.

            Faramir stared intently toward the high tower that crowned the city, as if his gaze could pierce the stone walls and transfix their father where he sat. His thoughts were dark. Whether, by the power of the Ring, his eyes could have seen even through the thick walls of the citadel he did not know; his glance was caught instead by a face that stared at him from the high wall; the face of someone barely tall enough to peer over the embrasure.

            Pippin! Boromir felt his breath catch. He is standing on the spot where Faramir stood to watch me ride out to Rivendell. He looked painfully small against the stones. Faramir's eyes, magnified by the Ring, could see clearly the details of the hobbit's face. It smote Boromir's heart to see the grim and resolute expression where once he had seen only wonder and innocence.        

Faramir paused; another perian. For a moment he saw before his eyes the face of the Ringbearer as he had last seen him, pale and cold on the bloodstained floor of Henneth Annun. This then was clearly one of the Ringbearer's kin. He saw the wide eyes fixed upon him; read both hope and hesitation in them. The boy could feel that something was wrong, but he did not yet know what. Soon he would realize that Faramir carried the Ring, and he would begin to guess at the fate of his cousin. 

            Faramir dropped his gaze back to the great gates of the city, but he could still feel the perian's eyes upon him as he rode on. The lad can be made to understand. He is still young and malleable. It was an accident, no more, but it was guided by the hand of destiny. He was sorry for the deaths of Frodo and his faithful servant of course, but they would serve a higher purpose. Faramir would make sure of that. The boy will understand. The small face drew his eyes again. The young one was hiding something, something that Faramir needed to know. 

            The vision struck without warning. He was leaning against a tree, gasping for breath. There was an orc arrow in his side, spreading pain throughout his belly. There were two other arrows lodged in his ribs. He could feel them cut into his lungs every time he drew in air. He looked over to where Pippin hung, limp and painfully small, slung across the shoulders of a large orc. He had defended himself as well as he could, but he had been overwhelmed. Merry had kept the orcs back for a while, separating a few hands from their owners in the process, but when Pippin fell, his back was left undefended. He was grabbed roughly from behind and his sword wrenched from his hands. He continued to struggle until he was clubbed in the head with the hilt of his own blade. He slumped back into the arms of his captors, a line of blood dripping down his face. Boromir saw a red haze rising to cloud his vision. He did not know if it was anger or impending death, and he did not care anymore. He would continue to fight with all the strength that remained in him. He gripped his sword and raised it with great effort.

            Faramir looked at his hands, clenched white with shock on his horse's reigns. Boromir had not died trying to take the Ring. He had died defending the Ringbearer's kin; and now the little one was honoring his debt to his fallen defender. There was no doubt in Faramir's mind that the boy was willing to die to defend Boromir's home. A feeling stirred somewhere in Faramir's heart that he did not dare to identify. He pushed it down with a surge of anger. He dares to take Boromir's place. If he was not so weak, Boromir might yet live. The perian's sense of honor was strong. He would die to avenge his cousin, and so die he must. All the halflings must die. He would learn the location of the last remaining cousin from this one, and then he would kill them both. 


	6. The Tower of the Guard

**Tower of the Guard**

Boromir's eyes flew open to reveal unrelieved darkness. His throat felt as if he had been screaming, but the unbroken silence stifled even the sound of his own breathing. When he struggled to rise a hand appeared on his shoulder, as insubstantial as smoke, but the cold pressure of that hand kept him rooted in his seat.

"Your brother dreams, Lord Boromir. He met the Ringbearer in Ithilien as you saw, and saw clearly the burden the halfling carried. He resisted the temptation of the Ring then, but he has fallen now under the shadow of the Nazgul. He remembers his nightmares and forgets himself. Soon he will have wandered so far into darkness that even Lord Aragorn will not be able to call him back."

"I will not let my brother die!" Even as he said it, Boromir could hear the unfamiliar note of desperation in his voice. He did not like feeling powerless. He was a man of action; he preferred problems that he could face on his feet with a sword in his hand. He did not like to ask for help. "What can I do?"

"If he forgets himself you must remember for him. Your link with his mind grows stronger as he draws closer to this place. Close your eyes. Remember him. See him again as you last saw him, standing on the high wall of the Tower of the Guard."

There was no trace yet of the faint grey that would soon be showing itself on the eastern rim of the sky as Boromir stood with his face to the west. The city below and the fields stretching out beyond it were still black with night, only the small stars of the night torches sparked in the darkness. Boromir had sent away both the soldier and the torch that usually guarded this spot. There was only one person in the world he wished to speak to now, and he did not have the heart to rouse him. Faramir, too, had orders from the Steward, and they were no less dangerous than Boromir's own. Boromir was used to having his brother at his side when he rode out to face the enemy, but this time he was riding out alone, and he did not know what he would be facing.

A wavering red glow lit the stones at his feet, tentatively at first, but growing inexorably stronger. The footsteps were light, scarcely louder than the hiss of the torch. Boromir let out his breath and relaxed. He knew those footsteps well. There was no need to rouse his brother; Faramir had an uncanny ability to sense when Boromir needed him. Boromir spoke without turning, his eyes still watching the shadows cast by the torch. "I am glad you came brother. I hope I did not wake you"

Faramir set his torch carefully in a bracket on the wall, and stepped up beside his older brother. Boromir turned to look at the face beside him, shadowed in the torchlight. It was a slightly more delicate version of the strong bones he had inherited from their father. Faramir carried traces of their mothers more gentle face, but in profile the nose and lips were remarkably like Boromir's own, and the grey eyes that turned to meet his were identical save for small differences in expression. "You did not wake me."

"I wonder sometimes if you ever sleep. I don't think I have seen you sleep since we were children."

Faramir smiled faintly, gazing out into the night. "I sleep- sometimes." His face sobered. "I will not have much chance to sleep in Ithilien."

"No, you won't." Boromir's fist clenched on the parapet. "Damn them! We should not have to sneak like fugitives into our own land! It is not our way; skulking and spying."

"No." Faramir said with rare bitterness. "No. It is my way. I have heard from good authority that skulking and spying are what I am best suited for."

"Father did not mean that the way it sounded to you, Faramir. You _are_ the best suited for this job. You have keener eyes, and you shoot more surely that anyone in Gondor, even Anborn." Faramir shook his head, but he did not reply. "And you move like a shadow in the forest," Boromir continued, with a sidelong glance at his brother, "not like a herd of wild boar, as I believe someone once described my attempts at stealth." He won a true smile from Faramir this time, although a very brief one. "It is a very delicate mission Faramir; Father knows that. He would trust it to no one else. He esteems- he loves you."

Faramir kept his eyes fixed on the darkness. "Then why does he not tell me so?"

Boromir turned to his brother and watched him carefully as he spoke. "When was the last time you sought him out Faramir, not as a soldier, but as a son?"

Faramir looked down at his hands, absent mindedly rubbing the hard calluses on them from holding bow and arrow. It was a while before he spoke. "I have done very little as anything other than a soldier for a long time now. I was hoping for some time to myself on the journey north."

"You were hoping for some time at the elven courts." Boromir said with some amusement. An answering gleam sparked in Faramir's eyes before he veiled them. "You cannot hide from your father forever, Faramir. He needs you."

Faramir's countenance was impassive. "So that is why you stole my quest. It was all for the good of the family. You are trying to force a reconciliation between Father and me. How noble of you!" After many long years, Boromir knew when Faramir was baiting him. He laughed and clapped his younger brother on the shoulder. "No, of course not! You know me better than that. If there is a need for someone to go galloping bravely into the unknown, I will be the one to do it. It's my prerogative as Captain-General." He put out his other hand and turned his brother to face him, before he continued soberly, "I am far better suited for long rough journeys than you. You know that. I need you here, watching over Ithilien for me. I need you here watching over our father. You will return to report to him often. Do not let the Steward despair. He is a proud man; I do not know what he would do in desperation. And watch yourself too, take no unnecessary risks; your life is too valuable to all of us."

Faramir gripped his arms tightly. "And to you dear brother, I might say the same thing. You too are a proud man. It would be a grievous loss to Gondor if you did not return, and an even more grievous loss to me." Boromir pulled his younger brother into a crushing embrace as the light of day began its slow rise in the east.

The sky was grey, and looked as moody as Boromir felt, as he rode down the winding road from the citadel to the great gates of the city. He looked up once and saw Faramir standing in the same spot, as still as the statue of a Numenorian lord. He looked back once again after he passed through the gates, and raised his hand in farewell to the crowd that had gathered, even at this early hour, to see Gondor's finest begin his great journey. He could not be certain, but he thought he saw, through the dim light and the distance, Faramir's hand raised in return. He turned his back on the white city, and rode into the still shadowed west.


	7. Return to Gondor

Yes, finally, a new chapter. A special thank you to Pipkin S. for her extreme patience.

Return to Gondor

Once more Boromir felt a horse beneath him and the wind in his hair, and thought he was reliving the journey north. Then he felt the malice of the Nazgul biting into him, and realized that Faramir was returning to Minas Tirith again in his dreams.

He felt the Ring weighing on the chain around Faramir's neck, burning like a disk of fire against his chest. His blood went cold. The Nazgul poison was still working on his brother's mind. Then he saw Frodo's face in his brother's thoughts, living, grim and determined, and felt Faramir come into himself again; weary and hunted, held upright by adrenalin and will-power alone, but free of the taint of the Ring. The hunting cry of the Nazgul rang in his ears. It took two deep breaths before Faramir found enough air in his lungs to wind his horn, and inside his head he could hear the horn of the eldest son blowing in despair with only the yelling of the orcs in response. His eyes were fixed on the highest walls of the tower, straining to find the place were he had stood to bid his brother farewell, as if he would find some echo of Boromir still standing there.

The sound of his men murmuring to calm their nervous mounts brought him back to the present. . In front of Faramir's eyes the Nazgul wheeled suddenly and began to fly straight toward them, growing larger with breathtaking speed. Behind him the other horses bolted, throwing their men, who had no will to control them in their growing terror.

With great effort Faramir turned his own horse. He could see the unreasoning terror in the eyes of his men, and feel it pounding against his back. His horse was frozen. He could only turn his head and see the winged beast stooping toward him. He struggled to raise his bow, but his arms would not obey him. Boromir willed Faramir to move, to defend himself, but he was watching a memory he was unable to change.

With stunning suddenness the great creature wheeled, veering north. For a moment Faramir could only gasp, stroking his horse's mane to calm both her and himself. He raised his head slowly and saw a figure approaching with supernatural speed; a white figure on a white horse with a white light around him. Light leaped from the figure like a spear and the Nazgul fled, vanishing into the dark clouds with a last bone chilling wail.

He turned his mount toward the newcomer in a daze. His heart felt very young in his chest. It could not be. He had fallen. Frodo had seen him fall. The brilliant light faded as he watched, and he could see the riders face clearly. He might have slipped from his horse then if Mithrandir had not reached his side at that moment and held out a hand to stop him.

It was Gandalf. The Grey Pilgrim was back, all in white now, with light shining through him like a bright candle glowing through a sheltering hand. Boromir's own mind reeled. Faramir's voice came to him like and echo of his own.

"You were dead. He told me you were dead."

Gandalf's glance was sharp, but his voice was calm. "Yes. Yes I was, but I am here now. Your men are coming. We must get to the city. The Steward will be waiting."

Faramir's men slowly regrouped themselves, and slowly stumbled forward to be met by the crowd that swept out of the gates and carried them like a tide back into the city. Boromir's thoughts rode with them, rubbed raw by fear and wonder and hope. For a moment Faramir was quite content not to think about where he was going as the wave of humanity made its way slowly up the winding streets. Gradually his tight grip on his horse loosened and he sat up straighter in the saddle, drawing strength from the white stones of the city and the white figure that rode beside him.

When they reached the top of the hill Faramir found that his legs would support him when he slid down off his horse, and that his voice remained steady as he exchanged formal words with the guard at the gate. He had been aware of the crowd calling his name since he entered the city, but he heard it only as a dull murmur in the back of his mind. Now a new voice, close at hand, rose above the others, and he looked down startled. A halfling, and in the uniform of the Tower Guard! A nightmare vision came to him of Frodo lying in a pool of blood, his throat slit, but before he could grasp at its meaning or remember where it came from, his sight went black, and he felt only pain in his belly, and fire in his lungs; and then the walls of Minas Tirith were around him again, it's cobbled street beneath his feet, and Gandalf's hand was on his arm. As Gandalf led him away, with Peregrin Took, soldier of Gondor trailing behind them, Faramir was certain he saw his brother's face, reflected in the wide eyes of the Ringbearer's young cousin.


End file.
